


don't be surprised if i love you for all that you are

by safeandsound13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Build, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-17 23:38:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9351542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13
Summary: She doesn’t meet Octavia until she’s well into her early twenties. Still, her brother insists on accompanying her to all of her check-up appointments. It’d be sweet, if he wasn’t so damn annoying. / Or, Clarke has a Thing™ for her patient's brother.





	

**Author's Note:**

> HI GUYS IM BACK  
> W SOME NOTES/DISCLAIMERS  
> ALSO CANON S4 BELLARKE WHO'S IN
> 
> Ok honestly i know i keep doing medical related plots but thazz me yall its going to be my field of work in a couple of years and i love it so you know… my brains wired this way. Also its super juicy in the drama department
> 
> Ayway i did not make this to offend anyone with scids and ofc i read up on it but im not an expert or anything i just remember this woman who came to class one day and told us about how she had to live with this disease and it touched me so badly. I thought it was super appliable to octavia's situation pre-earth and i just kinda hooked it up with another prompt in which person a accompagnies their sibling to all of their doctors appointments, which happens to be person b. spoiler alert: its bellamy and clarke. SO my point was i tried to do this to the best of my abilities (maybe even dramatized it a lil) but if anything is uncorrect pretend its au, or educate me on tumblr (newwaystofallapart13), but pls pls pls dont send me hateful messages about how i personally offended every real person in the universe who has this disease bc thats what happened last time and i had an emo breakdown over it THANKS
> 
> I kinda wanna make a fic about wells/raven & lincoln/octavia in this verse now lol hmu if anyone's interested
> 
> if you're confused about the ages (which i was, many times so it might still not be 100% correct) clarke is about 29, octavia is 24 and bellamy is like, 34. lets just go with it guys.
> 
> Also clarke trying to love again plays a pretty important part in this fic and i know there's the whole “lexa was clarke’s true love so she should never love again“ discourse thats been playing out on tumblr and twitter amongst (mostly but definitely not all) clexa fans that for me, kind of hits a personal spot. Like there’s so many young LGBTQ kids out there (incl me) who dont need the message that they get one person and thats it. im not at all saying clarke should date bellamy OR IN WHAT TIME FRAME THIS SHOULD TAKE PLACE ON THE SHOW, im just saying shes an eighteen year old girl who deserves to be loved again ok bye
> 
> anyway enough of this, please continue to read the fic and tell me what you thought!!!
> 
> TITLE & FIC: head over feet by alanis morisette  
> MENTIONED: i ain't 2 proud to beg by tlc

_._  

_Just as you have loved before_

_You will love again_

_-Warsan Shire_

  _._

  _you've already won me over in spite of me_

_and don't be alarmed if I fall head over feet_

_don't be surprised if I love you for all that you are_

_._

 

She’s seen her fair share of bruised no-really-it- _feels_ -broken limbs, innocent birthmarks and harmless colds. Her first _real_ , unsupervised case is a patiënt called Octavia Blake

Or Octavia’s brother, really. He’s the real case. _Assholingitis_.

She meets the girl, Octavia—twenty-two year old with a severe immunodeficiency disease, that was currently being managed thanks to a bone marrow transplant from an unknown donor she got about four years ago—who seems nice enough, pretty in that clean and effortless way, and is about halfway through introductions when a guy with dark curly hair and serious scowl, dressed in a police uniform, storms in.

The first thing out of his mouth isn’t an apology (okay, that’s partly acceptable), but almost an accusation (that isn’t). “Where’s Jaha?”

Clarke presses her lips together, points her hand at the empty seat next to Octavia, who just rolls her eyes at his behaviour. They exchange a unbothered, but yet heated, look, like they’re both _seriously_ unbothered by each other, before turning back to her.

“Welcome,” she forces out, tight smile on her face. Rude people are God’s way of testing her patience. “I’m Clarke Griffin. I will be your….?”

“Sister’s,” he says at the same time as Octavia deadpans, “I don’t know him.”

“Right.” She raises her eyebrows. They don’t look that much alike at first sight, but now that she knows, she can kind of see similarities in the way they hold themselves, the intensity in their eyes, their cheekbones, their sharp jawlines. “ _Sister’s_ general practitioner for the unforeseeable future.”

“No offense,” he says in that way that totally implies full, unapologetic offence, “but you seem a little young to be a doctor.”

“ _Seriously_ ,” Octavia emphases, slouched in her seat, fingers interlocked in her lap. “I have never seen this man before in my life.”

“I’m twenty-nine. If you would be so gracious to direct your gaze upon the wall behind me, you will find yourself looking at my diplomas,” she answers, trying to sound polite like she learned at the many networking parties her mom made her go to and not like a sarcastic asshole per se, but hey. Every individual interpretation of her words is subjective.

“Harvard medical school,” he notes, almost like a reproach, tilting his head so a few curls fall into his eyes. It feels like a challenge of some sort.

“Twenty-twenty vision, huh?” She retorts in a likewise manner without skipping a beat. Octavia tries to hide a snort, but fails miserably. Straightening her white coat a little in victory, she scoots her chair closer to her desk, folding her hands on top of it. The universal doctor sign of ‘ _we only have ten more minutes and I’d like to move on now_ ’. “So, like I was telling your sister before you barged—”

He interrupts her, looking at her like he’s still considering her, brows furrowed together. He leans forwards, elbows on his knees. “I’m sure you’re great, but Dr. Jaha has been on my sister’s case since she was seven years old. This is her health we’re talking about, you know.”

She clenches her jaw, forcing the fakest of polite grins onto her face. He just simultaneously called her irresponsible and careless. If she was a little less confident in her own capabilities, she’d be crying to her mother tonight. Something about him—it just irks her.

“Bell,” Octavia urges, an annoyed sigh in her voice as she pushes him back into his seat with her arm. “Shut up already.”

“Thelonious took some much needed time off after he started talking to his wife.” She usually had the more appropriate excuse about a burn out ready for his old patients, but what the hell. He didn’t seem like he was going to let it go any time soon. Dryly, she adds, “Which would be fine, had I not gone to her funeral about ten years ago.”

“What about you?” He cuts in, suspicious, like he half-expects her to be talking to a dead wife, too. Octavia looks about ready to kill him. (If she doesn’t, Clarke might.)

Like she said. No letting go on his part. Her first case where Jaha’s not breathing down her neck and spewing quotes straight from a Lifetime movie every five seconds and her patient’s brother is a big baby.

“What _about_ me? Do I hallucinate about dead people?” She cracks a small amused smile at that. “You set the bar pretty low for a doctor, considering this is about your sister’s health.” She cocks an eyebrow, using his own words against him. “You know.”

He nods, once, like he’s finally giving in, but continues looking at her like she has some ulterior motive and is trying to slowly murder his sister.

She clears her throat, uncomfortably, breaking their staring match. She brushes some of her blonde wavy hair behind her ear and flips through Octavia’s file quickly, reading over the summary of her last check-up. “Let's check you out, mhm?”

She smirks as she starts unbuttoning her checkered blouse, revealing a black tanktop underneath, “You’re super attractive and all, compared to Jaha especially, but I do have a boyfriend.”

“Ha-ha,” Clarke answers dryly as she gets out of her chair and starts warming up the chestpiece of her stethoscope. “Dr. Jaha has way more to offer beneath that white coat and we all know it.” Because why not make a penis joke while she’s at it?

Later, when Bellamy is making a new appointment at the front desk and she walks Octavia out, she says, “I would apologize for the way he behaved in there, but this is just how he is.”

“It’s okay,” Clarke answers, because really. This girl grew up being isolated from the entire world because she was born with a defective immune system. After birth, no one held her unless it was to examine her. She can deal with a patient’s grumpy older brother for thirty minutes every three months or so. She clears her throat, softly, pauses her step and checks to see if he’s still busy. “Are you sure you don’t mind, though?”

Up until this point he seemed like a regular asshole, a little overprotective but not problematic. Still, she felt like she had to check. He didn't even flinch when she asked about Octavia’s sex life, just looked vaguely uncomfortable. He’s heard, and probably answered, all these questions before. It can be pretty invasive and she could get it if it could be too much or too controlling for Octavia sometimes. She didn’t know their lives behind closed doors.

Tightening her ponytail, Octavia laughs, intrepid and grand, before starting to tie her blouse around her waist and informing her, “Doc, I spent more than half of my life locked up in a plastic bubble with people talking to me through glass walls and only touching me with gloves on. I can handle my brother.”

Clarke smiles, reaching out to touch her shoulder in comfort. “I’m going to take good care of you, okay? Despite your brother thinking I’m some sort of amateur that bought her medical license on Ebay, I’m pretty kickass at my job.”

Octavia raises her eyebrow in response, scratching at her neck and drawing Clarke’s attention to the tattoo of an outline of a black rose on her collarbone, spanning all across to her shoulder. Probably covering up a scar of a central IV line, she realizes now. Probably gave her brother a stroke when he found out, she imagines. Because, like, germs.

“Would it help if I told you it took Bellamy up until. Uhm, about last year? I think, to trust Jaha and not second-guess everything. He’s always paranoid someone is going to betray him.”

“That sounds like a healthy way to live,” Clarke notes, sarcastic and the other girl smirks in response, like she’s in on something and is deliberately excluding Clarke from it. “Maybe he’ll come talk to his family doctor about it some time.”

“I’ll make sure to stock up on his favorite flavor lollipop.” She pretends to be serious, furrowing her brow together in thought as she stuffs her hand into her coat. “Pissy cereal it was, right?”

She snorts in response, shaking her head a little. “Either that or vinegar.”

Clarke thinks they’ll do just fine. 

(That night she studies Octavia’s file until she knows it backwards, forwards and sideways because, honestly. She’s not petty but she is going to prove him wrong and be the best doctor Octavia ever had. Because she’s great at what she does, and a little bit petty, too.)

.

 “You’re going to be at all of these?” She asks Octavia’s brother—something with a B, a girl’s name she tries to make herself remember—at their next appointment, about two months later. ‘Their’ being Clarke’s and Octavia’s.

“You seem surprised,” he retorts, sliding his glasses back upon his nose. Those are new, the glasses. He’s also not wearing his police uniform this time, just jeans and a black t-shirt. Maybe she’s a little bit disappointed. What? She has eyes. Being pretty runs in the Blake genes, she’s sure.

“You’re right. I guess I should’ve known better,” she answers, but it lacks earnest. And tone. Opening up Octavia’s file she checks the last date of their appointment. “So, what’s up, Octavia?” She frowns, checking her face for any visible signs of pain or sickness. “I see your check-up was moved up by your request. Have you been feeling ill?”

“Nah. It was moved up by Bellamy’s request. He talked Linc—my boyfriend into it and all. They emotionally blackmailed me into coming here.” She scowls, pointedly refusing to look at her brother. “They made me take a fucking sick day for this and everything.”

“O,” he warns her, eyeing Clarke before turning back to Octavia and lowering his voice, whisper-shouting her way, “I told you. The study said—”

She cuts him off, ardent. “He read a damn second rate article about some clinical trials with gene therapy causing leukemia and he had a bitch fit and basically told Lincoln to start planning my funeral.”

She’s seen hypochondriacs before, and they’re certainly not her favorite kind of patients, but this is on a whole other level. This is someone projecting all of their medical fears onto someone else.

“That’s why we have at least three to four check-ups each year where we extensively look for signs of rejection of the bone marrow, further development of her immunodeficiency or any form of infection,” she informs them, browsing back to results of her blood work from their last appointment, starts reading them over. “I promise you everything looks fine.”

“That’s what I keep telling him,” she mutters, loud, like a four year old throwing a tantrum.

“It was a publication in a scientific magazine,” he justifies, taking what she guesses is, the article out of his bag, highlighted and everything. It’s a little scrunched up and torn, but he tries straightening it out before handing it to her. He pushes his glasses back up his nose, and his neck is strangely blotched red, like he’s embarrassed. “I swear I’m not being irrational or anything.”

She quickly scans the article, and she understands. From what she read in Octavia’s medical history, he’s been taking care of his sister since their mother died when she was eight, maybe even before that. He’s her emergency contact. He’s always made her a priority. They’ve been through a lot of shit, and sometimes, when you’ve lived like that for a long time, every little fearful thing you come across also seems to be stained by shit. All you see is shit. Clarke gets it, she really does.

“Any unusual bleeding? Unexplainable bruises? Lost any weight? Excessive sweating? Signs of a fever?” She asks absentmindedly as she runs her finger over something he scribbled down the side of a paragraph, small and almost unreadable, ‘ _tumor suppressor gene, mutagenesis with o’s procedure? ask dr. griffin_ ’. He actually knows what he’s talking about, didn’t just come here on a whim.

“No,” Octavia huffs, arms crossed over her chest, showing off her pretty impressive set of biceps. “I’m completely fine.”

“In this clinical trial they didn’t use stem cells, like they did for your sister, but germ cells. Those are genetically modified, which is kind of like playing minesweeper, but with genes. It’s super dangerous, and apparently causes leukemia,” she explains, sending him a sympathetic smile. He’s still a persistent rude jerk, but he means well. Softening her voice, she adds, a little awkward, “But, if it makes you feel better, I don’t see or hear anything that worries me.”

He sighs, slouching in his seat as he nods a little. Then, tapping his foot impatiently, he clenches his jaw. Unclenching it, he blurts out, “Are you absolutely sure?”

Octavia sighs, closing her eyes like she’s trying to control her emotions and not yell. “Bell, I love you but you’re so goddamn irritating sometimes. I told you I’m done with being sick. That means that I get to ignore all my tiny health issues and _live_ , until we absolutely have to come here, because every time we do—I’m back to being a patient.”

He looks at her, conflicted and Clarke kind of feels like she’s intruding on a private conversation. But with the way the both are, kind of hotheaded and impulsive from what she gathers, she figures she should offer her five cents. She’s getting paid for this after all, might as well contribute.

“Jaha would probably offer you some herbs for anxiety and tell you something like ‘ _what we think, we become, Buddha, like seven centuries ago, probably_. So, thank God I’m not him,” she teases, laughing a little, but it feels false because he just stiffens, probably thinking she’s making fun of him. She continues, offering a comforting smile that she hopes doesn’t border on ‘pitiful’. “But he would technically be kind of right. So I’ll translate. _Good vibes_. Unless Octavia actually starts to show signs of anything relating but not limited to a fever—try and stay positive, okay?”

They exchange a look between them, like they’re doing some sibling telepathy thing. Octavia pushes, finally, tapping her fingernail on the wooden handle of her chair, “She went to school for a bunch of more years than us, Bell. She’s smarter than both of us put together, so you better listen to her before I kick your ass.”

He bites on the inside of his cheek, considering her words before he breaks out in a small grin after what feels like forever. “She would do it too, you know,” he tells Clarke, smirking and putting his arm around his sister’s shoulder. She shrugs it off, but they’re both smiling so it’s all good. Sometimes Clarke wishes she had a brother or sister. She has Wells, but it’s not the same.

She looks back down at his scribbles, particularly her name in his small cursive handwriting, bites on her lip in thought while they repeatedly punch each other in the arm and squabble about ‘ _who hates the other one more_ ’ as she considers what she’s about to do. When they’re about done, she’s about finished with writing her number down, too, shoving it over the table towards them.

“Look, if Google ever doesn’t satisfy you enough and you seem to love your life enough that day that you don’t feel like getting brutally assaulted by your sister, you can call me.”

Octavia narrows her eyes a little at the piece of paper, while he picks it up carefully, looking at it while he holds it, wary. “You sure?”

“Yeah, you sure? Your phone bill will probably skyrocket. It’s a restraining order in the making,” Octavia cuts in, almost leery, scoffing a little.

“I’ll block his number before that happens,” Clarke offers, laughing a little and she shrugs in response, shaking her head a little. “Your funeral, Clarkipedia.”

Bellamy carefully puts the number in his wallet, nodding like they have some sort of super serious understanding. She guesses she IS offering up her professional integrity to relief some of the tension between the Blake siblings. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

She’s probably still a professional, right? She can offer patients’ family members her number without coming across as creepy, right? This won’t be the thing that gets her called in front of the ethics committee for, right? Like, this is not going to end up with her mother buying her out of it and yelling at her for it for forty five minutes through the phone, right? Cool.

.

“Wait, you gave him your _number_?”

Clarke chews on her potatoes a little longer than necessary, to buy herself some time. It wasn’t _that_ weird. Doctors give out their numbers all the time. “Yeah.”

Raven raises her eyebrows in that judgmental way only she can as she shoves some peas into her son’s mouth, who only opens his mouth to begin with because he thinks it’s hilarious to spew them right back into his mother’s face. She remains unbothered though, shoving the next spoon his way and trying again. Jet is two years old and a lot like his mother. He doesn’t give much of a shit about anything. Maybe toy cars, or chess. That, he gets from his dad.

“What?” Clarke asks innocently, shoving more carbs into her mouth.

“Super smooth, Griffin.”

“Ah, did I just hear my middle name?” She hears Wells before she can see him, loosening his tie as he leans down to kiss his girlfriend, who’s too busy snorting at his lame joke and simultaneously making sure her son doesn’t choke on a pea to really respond.

“Hi Clarke,” he says, before leaning down to mess up Jet’s hair, blowing a raspberry on his cheek. The little one giggles, and Wells taps him on the nose, “Don’t throw your peas at your mom, buddy.”

“Nah, at least _try_ to aim at Aunt Clarke from now on, JJ.”

“Hey Wells,” she says softly, swallowing the last of her potatoes (shit, what is she going to do now?). In the same sugary sweet manner, adding, “F-U-C-K you, Raven.”

“Clarke gave her number to her patient’s hot brother.” Raven tells Wells, ignoring Clarke. Jet is now actively aiming his peas at her, spluttering something about ‘Jet throw pea, aunt Clarke, Jet throw pea’. Nice. She’d laugh (plus tape and put it on instagram for shameless likes, hashtag Jet wants to throw pee?) if her friend wasn’t straight up _insulting_ her. “Wait, he _is_ hot though?”

She hasn’t let herself think about. Sure, he was attractive. She had eyes. But he was her patient’s brother, and a pain in her ass. Still, his freckles were cute and he had really great hands. But, no. Never. It wasn’t like that.

“I don’t know,” she blurts out, cheeks heated. She closes her eyes, cursing herself. “Of course I _know_. But I didn’t do it because I know, you know?”

“How adorable. He’s making you stutter and blush like a five year old,” Raven responds, dry, wiping green goo off her cheek with her free hand, unbothered.

“Shut up,” Clarke answers, in lieu of a better response. Then, more earnest and soft, “I’m not ready. It’s not like that.”

They both freeze, and she already regrets bringing it up. 

She’s known Wells since she was a baby and she would die for him and his family, but. He would never be able to understand. He’s the kind of person who’s good in the purest way, who shamelessly drives a bright blue mini van like he’s a soccer mom, who literally makes a living out of making babies and little children healthy again.

He accidentally had a one night stand with Raven, because he thought it was a date and she thought it was a hook-up and he usually ‘doesn’t do that’ on the first date. He was so fundamentally against one night stands he actually unconsciously knocked her up. (Raven was on the pill at the time, so she calls it a case of supersperm and he calls it faith). That was about two and a half years ago.

Now she can’t imagine her life without Raven (and Jet) in it, but still. Raven’s been through some shit, but other level shit than her. She is a retired army mechanic that now works for NASA. She applied as an astronaut but they rejected her because of her bad leg (road bomb overseas) so now she’s back to being a mechanic, for NASA though, so. Good for her.

Clarke’s problem is more that everyone around her dies. It’s not the same. She can talk about shitty moms with Raven, but not this.

“Clarke. It’s been almost three and a half years,” Well tries, softly. Raven knows best not to say anything, just focuses on wiping green goo from Jet’s face.

“I know.” She licks her lips, draws her finger over the edge of her plate absentmindedly. “And I’m not sad anymore, I’m not. I’m on Tinder, I’m going to date, soon. I promise. Just—I didn’t give him my number because of that, okay? I felt bad for him, and I was trying to keep my actual patient sane.”

Wells doesn’t say anything, just squeezes her shoulder before sitting down next to her, starting up a lighthearted conversation about one of his tiny patients as he loads up his plate with food. She loves him, especially in moments like these where he knows exactly what she wants.

They shittalk Jeopardy reruns later that evening, and when she makes a move to stumble up the stairs and stay over for the night, Raven catches her by the elbow. “It would be okay, you know that right?”

“Huh?” She fell asleep near the end of their fourth episode, so she’s still dazed by sleep. Her friend looks super serious in the dim light, unlike anything she’s used to.

She scoffs, like she’s annoyed she actually has to say it, but in a sincere way. “It would be okay to date him, or not date him. Or to just screw him. It’s okay if it works out and it’s okay if it doesn’t. With him, or anyone else. Just give something a shot for once, yeah?”

“Thanks,” she mutters, squeezing her hand, and realizes how bad Raven is at comfort. Her friend actually shudders, she’s _that_ uncomfortable at any sign of vulnerability.

That night, she crashes in their guestroom and wakes up at an ungodly hour because her phone keeps blaring an overplayed pop song. She has to actually get up (roll out of bed) and actively look for it (it’s in the back pocket of the skinny jeans she discarded on the floor the night before). She presses it to her ear, squinting at the clock. It’s too dark to see the actual time, but it’s early. She can feel it. She hates mornings and all of her bad vibes radars are going off.

“Hello?”

“Octavia’s flow is one day off. Does this mean she is dying?”

“Jesus,” she mutters groggily, rubbing at her eyes with her free hand. “Bellamy, is that you? What time is it?”

“It’s 5:30 a.m.,” he answers, apparently unbothered by the fact that a little piece of her soul dies every time she gets up before the sun rises. He even manages to sound offended when he apologizes. “Sorry, I just finished a night shift, is it a bad time?”

She huffs, and then huffs again, pulling herself together. “Well. I’m awake now.” She runs a hand through her hair, scrunching up her nose. “Ready to discuss your sister’s menstrual cycle.”

“Like I said. She was late this month, I don’t know, I looked it up and it said she could have cysts on her ovaries.” He sighs and it sounds like he’s getting inside his car, but she doesn’t hear it ignite. “Google makes everything ten times worse.”

“I’m not even going to bother and ask you how you know that she was late to begin with and tell you girls don’t always have the luxury of knowing when the devil’s gift is going to spice up their next two to five days. Hormones, stress, maybe her brother constantly bullying her—it could all affect your cycle.”

He chuckles, low as she slowly moves from her position on the floor to sitting on the bed, legs crossed. A sound like that this early in the morning on an empty stomach doesn’t do much for her coordination. “I don’t _bully_ her. Just constantly harass her about her life.”

“Right, she’s so lucky to have you,” Clarke snorts, pulling on a loose thread from her underwear. Is it weird that she’s talking to him in her underwear? He doesn’t _know_ she’s not wearing clothes, but it feels strangely intimate all of a sudden. “I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. Just—let her live a little, yeah? Life is about more than just surviving.”

“I know that,” he accuses, then, more steady, serious, “It’s just hard because for so long I was just trying to keep her alive first. Believe it or not, there was a whole lot less to worry about back then.”

“Yeah,” she rebuts, biting down on her bottom lip. “You should try and put survival mode on off for a while. Save it for when you need it. She’s doing good, Bellamy.”

It’s quiet for a while, like he’s mulling it over, considering if he should trust her.

“Seriously, I’m sorry about calling so early,” he offers, this time more sincere. He clears his throat, and adds, a little stiffly, “uh, Dr. Griffin.” It sounds stupid.

Raven knocks on her door, once, twice, the sudden sound almost making her tumble over the edge of her bed. Shit, she forgot she goes to the gym in the early hours because she actually enjoys moving her body.

Her voice sounds muffled through the door, but still stupidly bewildered. “Clarke, you good? I’ve never been privileged enough to witness you up before 8 A.M.”

“If it’s before office hours, just text me instead, okay? I have to go,” she blurts out quickly, trying to keep her voice low. She knows her friend and the fact she’ll never live it down if she finds out.

“Bye,” she breathes quickly, watching the handle of the door go down in horror. She hears him open his mouth to say something when she’s already pressing the red button, so she grimaces at her phone in an apology he’ll never get to see. Still, it’s the thought that counts.

“Who were you talking to?” Raven questions, suspicious, hands on her sport leggings clad hips, brace covering her left leg.

Clarke yawns, crawling back under her covers, and avoiding eye-contact. “My drug dealer.”

“Ha,” Raven exclaims, as she rolls her eyes. Thankfully, she lets it go. “Well. I’ll be out until about ten. Wells is gone and I’m taking Jet with me so don’t eat all my food, yeah?”

“Mhm,” she mutters, pretending to drift off back to sleep even though her heart’s beating fast and loud in her throat, keeping her eyes closed until she hears the door close.

If she’s doing nothing wrong, why does she feel like she just got caught? 

.

The next time he calls her, she’s in the middle of ordering a sugary drink. It’s so sugary, the barista gives her one of those incredulous looks and it takes everything in her not to ask for some extra packets of sugar on the side, out of spite. It’s her life, if she wants to slip into a sugar coma and never look back, she’ll do that without the unnecessary judgement, thank you.

Her phone recognizes the number after their last call, so she gets into doctor mode immediately. Which means she stops thinking about that chocolate chip cookie she was doubting about buying.

“Hello,” she sighs, before taking a long awaited sip of her drink, slipping her sunglasses back over her eyes.

“Nice to talk to you, too,” he remarks, cynically, and he sounds vaguely out of breath. “Most patient friendly doctor of the year.”

“How much longer do I have to keep reminding you you're not my patient?” She tells him, trying to fish the keys of her car out of her purse. Why is there always so much shit in this thing? Why is there a fork in there? And an empty pack of gum?

“Technically,” he pants, and it sounds like he’s moving around a lot, “Technically I am. You’re our family, family doctor. I’m just the epitome of good health.”

“What in the name are you doing?” She demands, too distracted to think of a witty retort, her curiosity getting the best of her. She thinks she hears the faint beats of a Carly Rae Jepsen song play in the background.

“Just finishing up a cardio workout with my partner before our shift,” he explains, and it sounds like he’s slowing down, maybe even sitting down considering the ‘ _you’re a pussy_ ’ she hears another male call him, and she can’t believe he does cardio to Carly Rae Jepsen music.

“Okay,” she states, leaning against her car, figuring she has a few more minutes before she has to leave. “Considering this couldn’t wait until you were done, spit it out already.”

“You told me not to call too early and your practice opens at 9, so I thought I’d call beforehand,” he reasons, then, unsure, “You’re going to think I’m obsessive, or something.”

He looked up at what time Jaha’s practice opens, that’s kind of… considerate? Still it’s kind of inconsiderate he put the image of him working out in her head. As if she isn’t having enough trouble maintaining some sort of professional boundaries. Raven put the idea in her head and now there’s no going back.

“I already do so there’s nothing to lose,” she deadpans, taking another sip of her pink drink, slurping loudly.

“Great,” he chuckles, low, then, forcefully, “She was snoring the other night, I could hear it from all the way down the hall, which could be sleep apnea, right? Or point to some sort of lung disease? Or an infection? She could die.”

“Woah, slow down,” she cuts in, eyes widening. “One thing at a time. Are you sure she was snoring? Did she drink any alcohol the night before? It can relax the mouth and throat muscles which can cause snoring.”

It’s painfully quiet on the other side of the line, even though she can still hear other people grunting and Carly Rae Jepsen. That song’s going to be stuck in her head for the rest of the day.

“So… basically, I’m calling you because my sister was drunk last night and I thought it meant she was dying.” He lets out a deep breath, tired. “Awesome.”

“True,” she teases, because fuck boundaries, right Clarke, “If you’d wanted to hear my voice, you could’ve just said so.”

He laughs, and the sound’s a welcome change from all the worrying tones. “Thanks anyway. O really appreciates me bothering you instead of her.”

She laughs, finally turning around and opening her door, “Have a safe shift, Bellamy.”

“Yeah, it’s about time I hit the showers if I wanna make it on time,” she internally screams, “You have a nice day, too.” 

.

Clarke doesn’t really enjoy going to most medical events or conventions. Not because she doesn’t enjoy keeping herself up-to-date or learning new information, it’s just there’s usually doctors involved. She doesn’t hate doctors as a rule, she is one herself and her best friend’s one, but. She’s fairly known in the doctor community, not just because of her mom, but because of the little mental breakdown she had _as_ Abby Griffin’s daughter a few years back.

Normally, she just drags Wells with her, or more so he drags her with him because he lives for these type of events, but. It’s his and Raven’s anniversary and she’s cockblocked them enough to last herself three more lifetimes in the fifth wheel department. So, long story short—she’s rolling solo today.

She would’ve skipped it and spent the day in bed watching Netflix and eating enormous amounts of ice cream, but the symposium is specifically about possible vaccinations in primary immunodeficiency disorders. She not only promised one particular patient’s brother, she also received two similar patients—one newborn and a forty year old man who recently moved—but with less severe cases than her infamous patient Blake.

She’s in the middle of the longest line ever to get a snack (because she can’t survive all the judgemental looks and hushed whispers without her lord and saviour— _food_ ), when someone taps her on the shoulder. Taking a deep breath and preparing herself for the worst, she turns around, plastering the biggest smile she can muster onto her face.

She’s halfway through a sighed ‘yes?’ when she recognizes him. “Bellamy, hey.” Her shoulders immediately relax, and the smile turns genuine. Enough. She’s still not that excited to be here.

“Wow,” he snorts, moving to stand next to her instead of hovering behind her. “Were you expecting Hitler making an appearance today?”

“Why are you here?” It’s a dumb question, but hopefully distracts him enough so he won’t notice her flushed neck and their shoulders barely touching.

“This line is moving painfully slow and I didn’t feel like joining in the back so I obviously grossly abused the fact that I know you to get ahead in life.” He smirks, and she wants to die a little.

“Right.” She confirms, straightening her jacket a little. “And one of the symposia is about immunodeficiency disorders.”

“You’re a genius.” He nudges her with his elbow teasingly. “And I’m starving.”

It’s silent for a moment, then she brushes some of hair behind her ear and asks, “So, how’s cop life?” She can be casual.

“Great. We busted one of the biggest drug dealers in town the other day. Miller’s always a sunshine to work with. Haven’t died yet.” He smiles by pressing his lips together, then adds, “How’s doc life?”

“When you’re not sending me ten thousand emails and borderline stalking me?” She raises her eyebrows challengingly and he laughs a little. “Yeah, sure.”

They finally move a little closer to the front of the line and she sighs a little, “I love it. I love the independence and close contact with patients. I love that I actually get to see that I make a permanent difference in some of their lives.” She looks up at him, with a slight close-lipped smile. “Some of my patients’ brothers are a pain in the ass but—”

He scoffs and she laughs, feeling lighter than she has in a while. It’s good. Being with someone like this, that’s not family or Wells or Raven. No pressure.

It’s finally their turn after a while, and they talk about his role in the city’s big brother programme for troubled youth and his obsession with everything mythology before rolling right into Clarke’s obsession with Black Mirror and one of her summers in medical school spent in Africa with the Red Cross while consuming their sandwiches. Before she knows it the symposium is about to start—which simultaneously reminds her why she is here to begin with. If he notices the way people regard her here, he doesn’t mention it.

While he gets them a drink from the refreshment table and she finds them a seat, she pulls out her phone.

**CLARKE:**

**so….. bellamy’s here. how’s the anniversary?**

**RAVEN:**

**[something witty about the way your huge boobs look in the top i made you wear and how you should use them for the greater good of mankind]**  

**CLARKE:**

**(something witty about ur lack of boob)**

**RAVEN:**

**[more insults and love]**

  **CLARKE:**

**(passive aggressive comment about our friendship)**

 

**RAVEN:**

**glad we had this convo.**

**CLARKE:**

**true pleasure like always**

**RAVEN:**

**we can’t always be creative, eh?**

**CLARKE:**

**right. we have 2 tone it down a notch now n then**

**RAVEN:**

**i’ll be having more great anniversary sex with wells now. go get em tiger**

 

Clarke sends her multiple emoji's of the middle finger after, but without an actual response it doesn’t feel nearly as gratifying as it should.

She groans to herself as she second guesses adjusting her top, because damnit, Raven always knows how to get to her. Her boobs do look great, and if Bellamy happens to notice they do, well. Good for him.

The symposium itself is pretty boring and doesn’t inform her of anything new, except for the fact that Bellamy Blake takes making notes very seriously and is embarrassed of his glasses.

A very long hour and a half later, they’re still in their seats while the room empties out and they’re shittalking that one professor Sydney that came on for fifteen minutes and just showed an out of context video of a lonely cat lady which was supposed to be some farfetched metaphor for living with SCIDs. Yet, for the first time in forever, she actually had fun at one of these.

“Man, I’m still paying off Octavia’s medical bills and she thinks it’s comparable to taking care of a kitten.”

“Which is obviously way,  _way_ worse,” Clarke adds dryly, readjusting in her seat and unconsciously giving him a great view of her boobs, which he definitely notices. So she feels less bad about thinking about him shirtless and sweaty, working out with his partner without his permission. Sarcastically, she continues, “I would not want to know what it’s like to take care of a feline. I hear they’re difficult animals.”

He sighs, humoured, storing his glasses away in his jacket, “I could use a drink.”

“After that obvious and painful showcase of these so called doctors and their insensitivity and inability to empathize? I could use more than one.”

“Do you wanna…?” He nods his head towards the door as they both get up, voice trailing off. He’s smooth, she’ll give him that.

“Sorry.” She bites down on her lip, sending him an apologetic look. “I can’t. My friends are away for the weekend and my babysitting shift is up in an hour.” Murphy would have to stay longer and she can't do that to Jet.

He nods, again, looking a little disappointed as he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. Her excuse kind of feels like a relief. She likes him, but she isn’t entirely sure if she should go there.

“Raincheck,” she offers, stupid, even though her entire body is screaming ‘no’. It’s worth it when he breaks out into one of his goofy smiles. “Yeah, sure. I’ll hold you to that one.”

. 

After their accidental little get together there’s more more conversations along the lines of ‘ _can she get the flu shot without dying_ ’ and ‘ _she cut her finger the other day, are there any signs of infection I should be looking out for_ ’, and they just keep getting dumber every time. Like, _Bing_ could answer these. It’s like he’s calling just for the heck of it. Occasionally, something serious slips through, but that’s it.

“Hi, I don’t have any weird medical questions for you,” he discloses, and he sounds a little weird. It’s not just that his voice sounds distant through the receiver like she’s on speaker, it’s just… different.

She’s curled up next to Raven on the couch, Jet half asleep in between them, Wells on a reclining chair (he’s an actual grandpa), and signs for her to pause the show they’re watching. There’s no way she’s missing a second of their third re-watch of Orphan Black. She sits up a little, questioning, “So, what’s up?”

“Well, Octavia’s out and I’m making lasagna, or I’m trying to. My first attempt just made the fire alarm go off. Do you by any chance know how to not burn pasta?”

“Sorry, I’m a shit cook, that’s why I usually eat over at my friends anyway,” she says, genuinely. “Can’t help you with that one.”

“Oh, okay,” he stumbles, sounding a little disappointed. “Sorry for bothering you.”

“No problem, I’m kind of used to it by now,” she teases and he responds with a dry, “Ha-ha.” He emphasis, mock-mad, “Goodbye, Clarke.”

She’s still snorting at her own joke and the petty tantrum he was throwing when the line goes silent.

She is in the middle of unpausing Netflix when she can practically feel Raven and Wells’ eyes burning on the side of her face. She turns to them, re-pausing the show mid action sequence, frowning. “What?”

“He was inviting you over,” Raven clarifies, and Clarke scrunches up her face, snorting as she gives her a dumbfounded look. “Nah.” Unpause.

Sure, she liked how he looked, and how he cared about his sister, and his dumb jokes. All they actually discuss is his sister aliments, who gets all hot and bothered over that? She digs back into her popcorn, her friends still waiting for her to catch up. What would have happened if she’d had any basic human skills and knew how to cook? Would he have asked her to email him some directions?

Pause.

“He was inviting me over.”

“Yep,” Raven smirks and she feels the urge to punch her. “Since it was so painstakingly obvious, he’s going to think you hate his ass.”

She turns to Wells, deciding to ignore her female friend, the dread dawning in on her. “Ah, shit we have an appointment next week. That’s going to be awkward as fuck.”

“Clarke,” he urges, making a point out of looking at his son, who’s basically snoring but whatever. He’s a dork that thinks children learn cusswords through diffusion.

“Fine, whatever. It’s going to be awkward as _hell_.” She groans, throwing her head back against the couch. Panicky, she adds, “Should I call him back?”

Raven pulls her knees to her chest and bursts out laughing. Apparently she loves to watch her suffer. Bitch.

Wells, her saviour in need, actual best friend a girl could have, shakes his head. “Text him. It’s way more casual and gives you a few seconds to think about your replies.”

**CLARKE:**

**i googled it. turns out even an idiot can make lasagna. u still need help?**

**BELLAMY:**

**Did you just make a dig at my level of intelligence? Want my address?**

She shows her phone to her friends as soon as it buzzes, sending them an alarmed look.

Raven throws a hand in front of her face, closing her eyes to keep her laughter in control, eyes wrinkled with joy in the corners. “This is seriously—I can’t, it’s like. My God. It’s like you’ve never dated before.”

“Just say yes.”

“Unless you want to tell him you can look it up in his electronic medical record.”

She goes with Wells suggestion.

**CLARKE:**

**why not im always in the mood for pasta no matter what size or form**

Wells hands her instructions on how to make lasagna on one of his pre-signed prescription pads before she finishes putting on her shoes and Raven opens up an extra button of her henley shirt.

“This is strange, right? I shouldn’t go over there. I’m his sister’s doctor. If he ever gets the flu, technically, I’m his doctor, too.”

“Shut up,” Raven groans, leaning her cheek on her fist, using her free hand to brush a few curls away from Jet’s face. He’s looking up at Clarke like he’s judging her dating skills too, sucking on his bright pink pacifier, eyes half-lidded with sleep. “You’re being dramatic.”

“What she means is—don’t overthink this, Clarke. You're taking a step into the right direction, that’s all that counts,” Wells explains speaking perfect Raven, already holding up her coat as he sends a pointed look his girlfriend’s way. Her friends _really_ want her to start dating again. She didn’t know she was being that pathetic.

She arrives there a little over eight. It’s an old house in one of those neighborhoods that looks like it’s made for young families. She’s nervous as hell.

“I come bearing notes,” she smiles, holding up Wells’ piece of paper, a few bottles of spices tucked under her arm. “Also, he gave me seasoning that ‘ _white people don’t know exist_ ’.”

He takes them from her so she can take off her coat, amused as he lets her in. “I’m only half white and I don’t even use…” He squints at the bottle, “Bee—baharat?”

She doesn’t know why she was so nervous. It feels warm, and natural, like something familiar.

“If you think that’s exotic, wait until you try my personal favorites, garlic and salt.”

She takes in his place, it’s nice. It’s small, but personal. There’s pictures of Octavia and what she guesses are his friends all over the place. One of him in his official uniform with his hair a little shorter, probably taken during his graduation ceremony. There’s a poster of some National Geographic Channel history documentary on the wall above his chimney. It smells like burnt food, so he wasn’t kidding.

He snorts, arching an eyebrow. “I see what your friend means.”

He walks her to the kitchen, where he laid everything out. A sad dish with black goo in it resting in his sink. So much good cheese gone to waste.

He catches her looking at his first attempts’ final resting place and grimaces. “I’m usually not this bad at cooking, I just limit myself to recipes that I’ve seen other people make so I have a basic insight on what to do.”

He offers her a beer and she takes it, nodding as a thanks. “I’m not going to be of much help either because my diet mostly consists of sandwiches and fast food. Sometimes when I look extra pale my friends make me come over and force me to eat vegetables.”

“We can figure this out, right? You went to medical school, I’m practical—good with my hands.”

She almost chokes on her sip of beer, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand. Trying to save some of her dignity, she manages to answer, “Totally. How hard can it be?”

Half an hour in, she suggests they just order pizza instead. There’s flour in her hair and cheese permanently stuck under her fingernails. The end result is a sad heap of what’s supposed to be lasagna, but looks more like they ground up a few hotdogs and threw them together with tomatoes. When she reads they have to preheat the oven for 25 minutes, bake it for another 25, and then wait for another 15, she’s about to have a stroke from hunger. Enough is enough.

“There’s no guarantee it’ll taste good, and then we’ll be an hour in future with shitty lasagna and a serious craving for carbs.”

“Is it supposed to just… _cave_ in like that?” He wonders, poking at it with a fork. Then, when the sagging reaches a new level of pathetic, he adds, “Dominos?”

When the pizza arrives they eat it on the couch with more cheap beer while he makes her watch an action movie about the Roman Empire, only to point out all it’s flaws.

After he’s done trash talking some guy’s weapon, she turns her head to look at him, pushing her foot against his leg to catch his attention. “Hey, is Octavia coming home any time soon? Like I don’t want to freak her out. I _am_ her doctor. It would be a little strange.”

“No,” he answers, pretty certain, sulking a little. “She is at her boyfriend’s boxing match and she usually stays over at his after.”

“Her boyfriend boxes?” She snorts, humourless. That’s pretty ironic considering how Bellamy is around her. “You must _love_ him.”

“Yeah, that’s how she met him. She’s a kickboxer herself, also teaches classes. She’s some sort of kickbox guru.” He frowns, thinking hard. “She’s actually pretty famous on that site or, app, uhm, the one with all the pictures.”

“Instagram?” She smirks, amused and he nods, shrugging a little.

He sighs, but it’s half-assed so she knows he’s not _actually_ upset. “I tried my entire life to protect her and she goes and make a living out of getting her ass kicked.”

“To be fair, it looks like she does most of the asskicking.” 

“Definitely,” he agrees, nodding his head slowly, a small proud grin on his face. Then it disappears and he gulps down the rest of his beer. “She’s won best female fighter three years in a row in the amateur league.”

“She’s a fighter, Bellamy. Always been since the day she was born. You can’t blame her for that,” she reasons, because he’s all of a sudden looking pretty grumpy.

“She got that from her dad, I think. My mom always seemed to be giving up one way or another.”

She remembers reading that their mom killed herself around Bellamy’s eighteenth birthday, when Octavia was eight years old and he had to legally adopt her. It was a long process and more political shit happened, she thinks, because a lot of Octavia’s medical care was halted around that time.

“Maybe she got it from her brother,” she smiles, small but bright, nudging him with her shoulder. “Seems to me like you never gave up on her either.

He turns his head to look at her, a little conflicted, finally says, “Maybe.”

“Look,” she blurts out, playing with the label on her bottle, a flush creeping up her neck. “I feel like we’re not really on the same level. I know things. Because they’re in Octavia’s file, and I know that file like the back of my hand.”

“So?” He’s still looking confused, and she licks her lips, trying to find the courage. “ _So_ … you can ask me stuff. If you want. Like, about how my girlfriend died, or what my favorite color is. Anything.”

He seems to get the message that she’s willing to share her trauma with him, that’s she trying to open up because he always does. She wants them to be equals, if they’re going to be friends. She wants to tell him this kind of stuff, good and bad.

He takes a deep breath, putting his empty bottle down on his coffee table, leaning his elbows on his knees. “What _is_ your favorite color?”

“Probably yellow,” she nods, long and slow, letting it set it in before explaining, “Because of McDonalds.”

“Jesus, you’re the worst,” he shakes his head, running a hand through his curls as he tries to hide his smile. He has a nice smile.

She smiles, too, but tries to brace herself for whatever is going to come next. He starts picking up their plates instead, nodding towards the kitchen. She finishes the last of her beer in one gulp, picking up his bottle, too, and following him.

“You want to talk about it?” He starts, handing her another beer as he begins washing off their plates. He isn’t looking at her, like he thinks she might explode or something.

“When I was fresh out of medical school I met a girl named Lexa,” she swallows audibly, and it feels strange. To talk about it like this, without wanting to curl up into a ball and cry for days.

“I met her at one of my mother’s socialite parties actually, uhm. Her father used to be the major of New York, that’s how he knew the Griffin family and she was convinced she was going to be the first female president. She didn’t care what she had to do, she was going to do it. She was brave like that,” she grins at the memory, faint as she pauses, running a hand through her hair and leaning back against the counter.

“Also, she was like—the _most_ beautiful girl I had ever seen,” she laughs a little, and Bellamy chuckles, putting the last plate down on the counter softly, devoting his full attention to her. “She found me binge-drinking a bottle of champagne and called the host a bitch, and when I told her the host was my mom, she told me she already knew that. We were fast friends after that.”

He’s laughing again, low and shy, like he doesn’t want to interrupt her too much, scare her off. “She sounds pretty badass.”

“Yeah, she was,” Clarke confirms, wrapping one arm around her waist as comfort. “I had been pretty straight up until that point, because of heteronormativity and internalised biphobia and all that shit,” she rolls her eyes, thinking back on the stupidity of it all. “So it took me a while to really understand what I felt for her.”

She takes in a deep breath, because she was a lot, Lexa, even now. “And Lexa, she was so unapologetically herself, flaws and all, she couldn’t really help me with that. My dad died the year before, which is a completely different story, and I was still dealing with that for a while, too.”

(Dad had cancer. Mom was doctor who actively decided not to let him join the clinical trial that could’ve saved his life because ‘it would look like nepotism’ and lied about it. Dad died. Mom roped Wells, her assigned intern at the time, into lying about it, too. Clarke didn’t have anyone to turn to for a long while and hit a pretty raging depression. After Lexa, she broke down in the middle of her mom’s hospital, crying, drunk out of her mind, looking crazy as hell. It wasn’t a good year.)

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, quiet, leaning his back against the counter, too. He’s close enough that she can reach out if she needs to, but not too close so it feels suffocating.

She sips on her drink, crossing her arms as she clears her throat a little. He’s frowning, nodding along now and then, doesn’t push, and she appreciates he just lets her speak at her own pace. “So I’m starting my intern year at one of the best hospitals in the country, on my way to fulfill my lifelong dream of becoming a trauma surgeon, slowly starting to feel better after my dad, sticking it to my mom and I feel— _set_ you know. Like, I’m genuinely doing me for the first time in forever and I’m dating a girl that in my heart I know I’m going to marry and share my life with.”

“Your mom didn’t want you to become a surgeon?”

“No, yeah, she totally did. She just wanted me to do my internship at the same hospital she was chief of surgery at, so I could be the next her and she could continue to control my life.”

He nudges her with his foot, playfully. “Rich girl problems.”

She rolls her eyes, fond, hiding her smile. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Then what happened?”

“About five months into my internship, they tell me there was a shooting at some international political congress and it’s stupid, but I remember thinking I was going to learn a lot that day.”

“You didn’t…?” His voice trails off and she bites down on the inside of her cheek until it hurts. “She told me she had some boring meetings for work that weekend, but no, it didn’t add up in my head.”

She continues, tries to tell it so that it makes sense, her mind jumbled with all kinds of emotions. “I was actually excited to get to work on a bunch of different cases, and then they wheeled in a patient that died in the ambulance. They used her phone to ID her and call her family. I’m the one that has to tell her parents that she didn’t make it, because they tell me it’ll be good practice. I walked into the examination room to get some of her information, you know, to tell her family. How she died, if it was painful, see if she still looks relatively normal, so I can prepare them if she doesn’t.”

“No one knew she was your girlfriend?” He looks surprised, eyebrows lifted, their shoulders touching in a super comforting way.

“No, uhm, intern year is pretty competitive. Nobody gets too personal.” Clarke had never really minded. She didn’t necessarily need to make more friends, or reveal any weaknesses, like the fact her mom was one of the country’s top surgeons. Lexa taught her that. Swallowing hard, fist balling against her side, she continues, “I see her laying on that table, covered in blood. Nobody even bothered closing her eyes. And all I really remember is that the last time we spoke, we talked about moving in together, starting our lives.”

She pauses, frowning at the memory, trying to put into words how she felt, still feels sometimes. “I was in shock for the longest time and I reacted by being angry at her, for leaving me. I loved her, and she left me.” She clenches her jaw, tears pricking at the back of her eyes. She wipes away a lone tear with the back of her wrist, putting on a pained smile, “I didn’t even go to her funeral. It was all a downwards spiral from there on out.”

“You’re here now, you made it,” he tells her, and there’s a tone to his voice that soothes the pain a little. He’s being so nice, and she hates it a little. “You can’t blame yourself for what you did to survive back then. What you went through… Who we are and what we do to survive, you know, emotionally—those are two completely different things.”  
  
“I know that, sometimes.” She offers him a watery smile, squinting at her shoes. “After uh, about six months, Wells. He was so done with me that he told me I could either feel sorry for myself for the rest of my life and waste all of my potential, or start a three year family medicine residency at his dad’s office. I wasn’t suddenly healed or, or happy, but—he saved me.”

“Jesus, Clarke, I’m sorry you had to go through that,” he answers, sincere. It’s exactly the same thing people always tell her, but it sounds different. Coming from him. Coming from a place of recognition.

Taking a deep breath, she nods, deciding she has to explain him, why. Why she has take things slow, why she’s like this after all these years. “I never told anyone this but about a year and a half later I tried dating this guy, uhm, Finn. He came to my house once and he was trying to gain supporters for his Green Peace petition or something. We started dating until I found out he had a girlfriend, that was out on a deployment for the army for the past ten months.”

“What a dick,” he scoffs, shaking his head. It feels good though, to get it out here in the open. To have him know.

“A few months later, I, uh, I asked Wells, you know, my best friend, to meet me at the bar I knew she hung out a lot through social media. I chickened out at the last minute because, I don’t know.” She shrugs, suddenly worried she sounds stupid. “I didn’t want to look her in the eyes and tell her I was the reason she was hurt and feel bad about myself again.” She clears her throat and avoids his gaze. “Apparently she found out, too and frequently drank away her sorrows there, including that night and well, long story short. That’s how I ended up with my godson, Jet.”

“You never told them?” It doesn’t sound judgemental, more curious.

She shrugs. “When it first happened there was already so much drama. I didn’t want to add more factors to it and give Raven another reason to push Wells away. After a while, they were so happy it kind of felt stupid to bring it back up.”

He nods, and it’s quiet for a moment. The two of them just standing there in the dim yellow kitchen light.

She’s chewing on her bottom lip and he’s staring at nothing before he suddenly turns to her, looking a little like he’s struggling with something. “You don’t have to tell me anything, Clarke, you know that, right? You don’t owe me anything. We’re not comparing battle scars and measuring who had it worse. We can be friends with or without knowing every single shitty thing we’ve been through.”

“I know. But I wanted to tell you. It feels good to tell someone who didn’t know me then, or straight after. I was a mess.”

He leans a little closer, bumping his shoulder against hers. “I get it. I’ll be your therapist. I’ll even do it free of charge.”

“Asshole.” She scoffs, grinning a little before all of a sudden it fades. She swallows tightly. Then, just to be sure, “Friends?”

“If that’s what you want,” he answers, genuinely, but she sees the hesitation in his eyes. He’s looking at her like she’s the best thing and all she wants to do is bolt. She can’t do it. Her insides clench up like a clam and she wants to get out of there as soon as possible. The moment of tense air and loudly beating hearts passes, and the thought that he might kiss her does, too.

“If you ever want to call me, we don’t have to talk about Octavia all the time, you know. You’re interesting enough of your own,” she admits, and he gives her a questioning glance in response. She’s too chicken to respond or show any more emotion so she takes out her phone instead, looks at the time. 1 AM. “I should go.”

He jumpstarts, nodding as he takes her bottle from her and puts it down in the sink before leading her back out to the front door. A little awkwardly, too break the silence, she diplomatically says, “I guess we’ll be seeing each other next week, because of Octav—”

“Like I’d forget,” he tells her as he helps her into her coat. She turns around, looking up at him. They’re so close, and for a second she thinks she isn’t going to be a coward and do it. Then, she puts her arms around his neck and hugs him, the sudden force of it making him step back a little. He hugs her back, arms tight around her waist.

“Thanks,” she murmurs into his neck, “For listening.” Pulling back, she comments, “And for not making me eat that lasagna.”

“Any time, Clarke,” he grins, and it sounds a lot like a promise.

.

While he walks over to the front desk to make a new appointment, Clarke reminds him, “In _three_ months, Bellamy, I’m serious. Not a week earlier, don’t try and charm Harper.”

She hears him laugh, which makes her smile and when she turns back to Octavia, she’s already looking at her. All judgemental and personal, like she would not like one of her patients to look at her like, basically.

“You like him.”

She doesn’t deny it, but she can’t admit it yet either. “Does it bother you?”

“No. Depends on what your intentions are.”

“My intentions?” What’s this, prom night?

She sighs, aggravated, like she’s questioning why she even needs to explain anything. “My brother’s dated here and there, some of them I thought might even stick. But there’s always something—his job, his commitment issues, his friends, his medical debt. It took me a while to understand that when he said a girl couldn’t deal with the constant fear of him ‘dying on duty’, they actually meant they couldn’t deal with _me_.”

Clarke shakes her head, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I think we have very well established that I can deal with you, Octavia. I didn’t go into this—this _thing_ trying to break you two up.”

Whatever that thing is.

She nods, final. Like she trusts her for now, but if she does anything to make Octavia doubt her, honey, there’s a shitstorm coming. “In that case, will you please just date my brother?”

“W-what?” Clarke stuffs her hands in her white coat, pressing her nails into the palms of her hands, hoping she heard her wrong.

“He’s been gone on you since you called him out on his bullshit during my first appointment.” She tilts her head, shrugging a little. “And for purely selfish reasons, your medical knowledge saves me a lot of trips to the doctor’s office and gets him off my back.”

Gone on her. Part of her feels happy, giddy even, that he feels that way about her. Another part of her is screaming, ready to pack up and run. Sometimes it still feels a little like she’d be cheating.

“I’ll consider it,” she answers, pragmatic. She reaches out and squeezes her shoulder, offering her a small smile. “But let’s try and keep church and state separate for a while, okay? You are still my number one priority.”

“Oh, dr. Griffin. That’s so romantic,” Octavia fake swoons, pressing a hand to her heart. She’s really bad at faking anything, everything about her too unapologetically and intensely genuine. “You’re making me blush.”

“It’s a true shame you’re taken.”

Dryly, “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“Hey, stop hitting on your doctor,” Bellamy playfully slaps her on the arm, throwing his arm around her lazily. Clarke kind of loves their dynamic.

“Pot calls kettle black,” Octavia retorts, imagining the words in front of her with her hand. “In other news, water is wet.”

A flush creeps up his neck, as he avoids Clarke’s eyes even though she can’t take hers off of him, stupidly interested in everything about him all of a sudden—like she’s seeing him with different eyes. “Sometimes I think you were raised by savages.”

Octavia throws her arm around his neck, having to reach all up all the way up, patting his shoulder teasingly. “Wasn’t I?”

.

Raven shoves a pie over the kitchen island, holding up two forks. The entire room smells like cinnamon and warm apples. “You haven’t said two words about your secret boyfriend. Time to ‘fess up.”

“You’re using Wells’ pies to bribe me?” Clarke eyes her warily, but snatches a fork out of her hand anyway.

“You bet your ass.”

Clarke is about to stab her fork down into Wells’ latest creation (he hates her and her barely-worked-for, did-like-three-squats-five-weeks-ago-because-I-dropped-my-keys-and-was-trying-to-keep-from-spilling-my-latte-and-it-took-three-tries-because-I’m-a-winner perfect ass) when Raven pulls it back swiftly, sending her a condescending look. “Nah. I ask the questions and decide who gets the pie.” 

“Wells made it,” she protests as she looks over at her friend, who’s working on decorating cupcakes with Jet at the kitchen counter. There’s a small blue handprint of frosting smudged on his cheek.

“Yeah, and I have sex with him on a regular basis so guess who gets to call the shots.”

Wells just holds up his hands up in defense after he’s done covering Jet’s ears because Raven said a bad word. Who, by the way, is looking very smug at the moment. Clarke groans, or more like whines like a two year old, before muttering a petulant ‘fine’.

“List five traits that describe him.”

“Jesus, what’s this? A job interview?”

“Do you want pie or not?”

“This is blackmail, you know.”

“I don’t actually look like I care, do I?”

“Shit, I don’t know. Attractive,” she shrugs, says the first thing that comes to mind, because that’s easy, explainable, distant. Superficial cop-out. She sighs, blowing a piece of hair from her face that had fallen out of her messy bun. “Pragmatic. Confident.” She snorts, then lightens up. “Devoted.” She purses her lips, nodding to herself as she squints her eyes in thought. Then, “Opinionated.” More like stubborn asshole.

“Picture?” Raven looks at her expectantly, tilting her head a little, one perfect eyebrow lifted. There’s an annoying little smirk on her face. Clarke can’t believe she’s _this_ ride or die for Wells’ pie.

“Fuck, you expect me to ask him for a headshot while I auscultated his sister’s lungs or something, Rave?” She scrunches up her face, irritated. Because of the third degree. And because she doesn’t want to consider any of this, let alone talk about it. “His name is Bellamy Blake. Maybe he’s on Facebook. I’m not going to do your dirty work for you.”

She doesn’t actually know if he does because she never let herself go there. She’s not a damn desperate hormonal teenager.

Raven shoves the pie her way and she starts inhaling it like a caveman. She would feel dirty and abused, if it wasn’t so damn good. Her friend pulls Wells’ phone from his back pocket and goes to work.

“Nice,” she states after two of the longest and most glorious pie filled minutes of her life. Wells looks over her shoulder, balancing Jet on his hip. Who responds to the picture by smearing chocolate all over the screen with his chubby little fingers. “Sirens, mommy.”

“Yeah, JJ, like we heard on the street.”

They both remain unbothered by the mess he made, Raven wiping his phone on her jeans before re-examining the picture. Wells whistles, sending Clarke an impressed look before turning back to his cupcakes with Jet. Why is he on Raven’s side? Friendship cancelled.

“He’s a police officer?” She asks, eyebrows raised as she turns around the device. Why does she feel like she’s being judged right now?

His profile picture is a photo of him and his sister, arms around him while he reaches up to adjust the party hat resting on his head. He’s laughing and he obviously looks good. His cover photo is his squad car, with him and, who she assumes is his partner Miller, squatting down in front of it. He’s smiling, arm around his partner, who looks like he was literally asked to choose between death or posing for a picture. He’s _that_ unamused.

“Yeah,” she swallows another bite of pie, shrugging a little. “He also coaches troubled youth or something.” Quickly she adds, “I don’t know.” She knows, but if she acts too interested she’ll never hear the end of it.

“Okay,” Raven starts, skeptical, counting on her fingers. “Hot, selflessly takes care of his sister—”

“ _And_ Arkadia’s troubled youth,” Wells cuts in while he turns the faucet on to start washing his and Jet’s hands clean.

“ _And_ Arkadia’s troubled youth, makes you smile, doesn’t have a criminal record that we know of. So. He’s perfect.”

“He’s not perfect.” Clarke is actually pretty set on this. He’s overprotective and overbearing and a total asshole when he wants to be. He’s stubborn and impulsive and sees the world very black and white.

(It’d hurt. If it doesn’t work out. She’s in a good place right now, a place she worked very hard to get to. She doesn’t think that she’d survive it another time.)

“Come on,” Raven retorts, aggravated. “Wells would date him.”

He shrugs, still working on scrubbing his son’s hands clean, who’s still babbling about the police car and imitating the noises it makes. “I do have a thing for hot people in uniforms.”

“Me and you both, buddy,” she almost responds, but doesn’t, instead pressing her lips together. It suddenly doesn’t feel like such a lighthearted conversation anymore.

“Clarke. People who are this attractive,” she emphasis her point by shoving the phone back in her face, other hand on her wrist, tight. “And genuinely not all that shitty, don’t stay single forever.”

“I love you guys. But—I’m working on it, okay?” She presses, sounding a lot more serious than she’d intended. “I have game.”

“You have a good butt,” Wells cuts in, better than her, settling in next to Raven and placing Jet in front of them on the kitchen island as he starts wiping his hands dry with a hand towel. Even the little one is giving her an unimpressed look. They look like one big, judgemental family.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She crosses her arms, mildly offended.

“It does most of the work for you, that’s all.”

“You come into my house—”

“You’re in our damn kitchen.” Raven looks unimpressed as heck.

“Fine, you invite me to your house and you just, what? Decide to insult my game?”

“Auntie Clakh,” Jet butts in, giggling annoyingly adorable as he bounces up and down, “Auntie Clakh have big butt.”

They’re both laughing when Clarke huffs in response. “Seriously? You all just abuse your kid like that?”

“We only have about two more good years of his cuteness left before he full on develops the Jaha nerd gene and everybody just gets irked by his pedantic nature.”

“Hey,” Wells nudges her with his elbow, offended as he keeps their child from crawling right off the island. “You like it when I talk nerdy to you.”

She points two fingers at them, stern, ignoring every and all information about Raven’s kinks, hard. “Watch my _big butt_ as I walk out of here, haters.”

 .

She’s on her way home from a very tiring meeting with other general practitioner's from the area when she’s finally able to locate her phone under the passenger seat. That’s where the little shit’s been all day. Not in her purse, so she’d be able to tell the time and check her online files. Under the damn passenger’s seat.

In between notifications from Buzzfeed and Instagram, her heart starts pounding loudly in her ears as all the blood drains from her face.

**BELLAMY (4 missed calls)**

**BELLAMY:**

**I don’t know what to do Clarke**

**BELLAMY:**

**I can’t lose her**

She unlocks her phone quickly, fingers trembling. There’s more messages like the ones on her lockscreen, and him explaining Octavia woke up with a fever and an unexplainable cough. He took her to the hospital, and apparently—it was bad news.

Not thinking twice, she races over to the hospital. She’s not family but she’s able to pull some strings because she’s Octavia’s doctor and her name’s on the damn hospital.

Bellamy is sitting outside of her room, one of the waiting room chairs. He’s slouched over, elbows on his knees and leg tapping impatiently. Stare empty.

“Hey,” she breathes, stupid. He doesn’t even notice her the first few seconds, until she repeats herself.

He looks at her, blank, until the recognition dawns on him. He rises from his position slowly, making a move to strive over to her, but halting to a stop in front of her, like he isn’t sure what to do now.

She closes the distance, wrapping her arms around his neck tightly. It takes him a second, but his shoulders relax and his hands land on her back. He squeezes her, tight, before stepping back.

“Thanks for coming.” He sounds so distraught, her heart breaks a little. They’ve already been through so much.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes, reaching out to squeeze his forearm.

He stares at her for a second, then he nods, stiff. “The doctor said she could have pneumonia. Her leukocyte count was high and she had a fever and—I don’t know. It doesn’t look good.” He pauses, licking his dry lips. “They’re uhh, running some tests on her right now.”

“I don’t understand, last time I saw her she—she was,” Clarke bites her lip, anxious. She doesn’t really know how to finish that sentence. Are you ever really fine if you’re in constant fear of getting sick or dying? “There weren’t any abnormalities in her results.”

“Yeah,” he responds, and she doesn’t really register the cold tone until she notices he’s clenching his jaw and she realizes he’s angry.

She’s quiet for a moment, kind of astounded he’d say—think that she—how?

“I couldn’t of known this, okay, Bellamy?” She presses, her voice a little shaky just at the assumption. He doesn’t look convinced and she’s desperate for him not to be on the wrong side of this. “Tell me you believe me.”

“You’re her doctor, aren’t you?” He spits back, low and she’s about to cry, feeling strangely numb. He looks so, hurt, glaring at her like they’re two strangers.

Before she has time to respond, a nurse puts a hand on her arm, smile friendly. “Dr. Griffin? You could see her now, if you’d like.”

She nods, thanking the woman before tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, building up the courage to look at him. She does, after a moment, eyes pricking with tears. “I’ll just be a minute, okay?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer, goes into Octavia’s room as quick as possible. She doesn’t know what the hell just happened, just knows she has to get away from the entire thing as fast and far as she possibly can.

She knocks on the door opening before stepping, pasted smile on her face. “Hi. How you're doing?”

“I’m peachy.” Octavia doesn’t look all too surprised, eyebrows raising in acknowledgement. There’s a thin layer of sweat on her forehead, and she has a nasal cannula for extra oxygen, but other than that she looks well. “Today was supposed to be a good day, you know,” she tells Clarke, unfolding what looks like a piece of newspaper and pushing it over her beside table towards the blonde. 

She picks it up carefully finding herself looking at a cartoon from Arcadia's local newspaper. She’s seen it before, some comic cartoon about a girl who lives in a bubble and overcomes the obstacles of daily life. She always thought it was commentary on how modern day society is dependent on shit like social media, but apparently not. This particular one is meta as hell.

The illustrator drew himself drawing Bubble Girl, noting all the great things about her in another square. The next one containing a picture of Illustrator and Bubble Girl, who now that she’s really looking resembles Octavia quite a lot, with a speech balloon reading, “if only Bubble Girl would marry me”.

“Is this you?” Clarke wonders, fond smile on her face as she hands it back. It’s pretty cute.

“Yeah,” she answers, straightening it out so she can give it another look herself. “Lincoln is an artist.” Clarke loves painting, so she’s totally not biased when she says that makes him the most perfect guy on the planet.

“Did you see him already? Hospital proposals can be romantic, too. They get a lot of YouTube views.” Clarke tries to keep it light, but Octavia just rolls her eyes, cutting through the bullshit.

“He had a match in DC tonight. He’s taking the first flight out.”

“Wow. No rock?” Clarke teases, completely ignoring the fact Octavia’s avoiding talking about what’s really the problem here. She’s glad she gets to distract her for a little while. Enough people have probably talked to her about her problems today.

She plays with her hospital bracelet, shrugging a little. “He doesn’t really have an influence on _when_ they post his work, so he made me promise not to read the newspaper until he came home.”

Clarke nods, pressing her lips together in amusement as she punches the brunette in the arm lightly. “Of course, when someone tells you not to do something you do the exact opposite.”

“You know it,” she says, tilting her head proudly, before she smiles, eyes lighting up in a sad way. “Bell.” Clarke turns her head to find him hovering in the doorway.

He plops down onto the bed, next to her feet, putting his hand on her leg. “I talked to your immunologist and he says you might need a transplant if your temperature doesn’t go down fast.”

She sighs, deep, rubbing her forehead and Clarke kind of feels like she’s intruding on something. Bellamy seems pretty determined anyway. “He said they still need to do a few more tests and a nurse will need to draw some more blood but—”

“Bell,” she tries to stop him, voice soft, eyes pleading. He doesn’t really seems to notice the severity of the weary edge in her voice. Clarke’s not really one for confrontation, but it takes everything in her not to open her mouth and cut in herself.

He frowns at her, sending Clarke a confused look like she might have the magical answers before looking back at his sister again. “You don’t understand. He might want to put you in a more isolated part of the hospital, limit the amount of staff and visits—”

“Enough,” she cuts in, stern as she grits her teeth. Exasperated, she continues, “I spent my entire life locked up because—for what? Being born?” She shakes her head, clenching her jaw a little, eyes like fire, reminding Clarke exactly of Bellamy just a few moments ago.

Voice clear and loud and angry, like she’s spent a lot of timing thinking about this. “I did the isolation and the sterile environment.” She motions at her scarred arms, the marks and bruises, cheeks flushed. “I let them prick and prodd at me and treat me like a labrat. I did the chemo to break me down and the transplant to build me back up. I took all the damn anti-rejection pills.” She pauses, catching her breath and obviously hesitating before she tells him, softer, “I’m tired, Bellamy.”

“O,” he pleads, opening his mouth to say more but she furrows her brow. Clarke feels a little awkward, but not as much as she should. Probably. She’s just supposed to be Octavia’s doctor in this equation, and maybe Bellamy’s friend. Even though she’s not sure if that’s still the case.

“No.” She opposes, firm. “I just—” She takes in a deep breath, running a hand through her hair. “I want to be alone for a while. Please.” Her tone suggests she’s not _really_ asking anyway.

He nods, lips pressed together and he’s obviously pissed off. He probably knows better than to argue with her right now as he gets up from the bed. Clarke squeezes her hand, telling her she’ll come back later. Octavia says her thanks and she’s already halfway over to the exit when Bellamy catches her arm.

“I’m sorry,” he forces out, avoiding eye contact. “For earlier. I was—angry. And I, well. I guess I needed someone to blame.”

She relaxes a little, straightening her posture so she doesn’t look she’s about to run away, and the grip on her arms loosens considerably. “Last time,” he starts, but falling quiet as he finally looks at her. “Last time they couldn’t find a donor. They tested me, but I wasn’t—” he looks pained, pinching the bridge of his nose before shaking it off, like he’s telling himself to man up. “I wasn’t a match.”

“That’s not your fault, Bellamy,” she rationalizes, voice on edge because he really needs to quit the dumb martyr complex he’s got going on. He’s convinced the entire weight of the world rests on his shoulders, when the odds were literally all against him. (He hurt her feelings and she’s comforting him—that’s a new one.) “Matches are rare, _especially_ if you’re mixed, _especially_ if you don’t share the same parents.”

“I know but I still felt like shit over it,” he laughs, humourless, wiping at the wetness under his eyes with his thumb and pointer finger. “For a long time, I thought my life ended when my mom had her, but the truth is—I.” He swallows tightly, shaking his head lightly. “It didn’t start until then.”

She puts her hand on his, carefully wrapping her fingers around it.

“It might be nothing,” she reminds him, quiet, even though she has to dig deep to return that part of her, the optimistic, idealistic part.

“It might be something,” he urges half-heartedly, sad and Clarke doesn’t—she doesn’t know how to fix him, but she wants to. She wants to stand here and hold his hand in the middle of a hospital waiting room like two idiots, and comfort him and tell him it’s going to be fine.

Before she knows it, she’s pressing her lips against his, and since she’s not really registering it, presses her body against his, too. He kisses back, fairly instantly, hand in her hair, and he tastes a little salty, from crying. She’s a horrible person.

She pushes back, and he stares at her, confused and maybe even a little hurt before she manages to open her mouth, stammering a lame sorry before she bolts the hell out of there. She tries not to think of the look on his face—a little bit confused, a little bit broken—about the implications of it neither.

.

“I fucked up.” She climbs on top of the bed in between Raven and Wells, throwing a pillow over her face. Raven groans, pulling the covers over her head further.

“What happened?” Wells asks, putting his medical magazine down on his lap. He’s wearing dumb reading glasses that make her feel like a bad friend for not making fun of. She’s too busy with her own drama.

“Ikswjamhilm.” He has to pull the object off her face to make out an, “I _kissed_ him.”

“Okay. Well.” Wells pauses. Like he doesn’t really get what’s wrong, waiting for her to elaborate. Even he’s malfunctioning. “Good for you?”

“His sister—my patient—is in the hospital. He was vulnerable and, and _crying!_ For god’s sake.” She groans loudly, muffling most of it with the pillow. “Fuck. I’m such a bad person.”

“Agreed. Now get out of my bed.” Raven slaps idly at something behind her, not even remotely close to Clarke.

The blonde sits up, pressing the cushion against her stomach instead as she stares blankly ahead. “My first instinct is always to run.” 

Wells sighs, taking his glasses off and rubbing at his eyes. He’s always very tactical and considering. That’s why he’s such a chess nerd, probably. Logically, he asks her, “You don’t trust him?”

Clarke shakes her head before she finds it in her to use her voice. “It’s not that.” She bites down on the inside of her cheek, mauling it over for a second. She told him about Lexa, for God’s sake. “I trust him more than anyone.”

Raven growls into the covers and Wells nudges her in the leg with his foot, giving Clarke an encouraging nod to continue.

“It’s… I don’t know. I guess I’m just scared.” She sighs, opening her mouth before sighing again. She grits her teeth together, pressing her nails into the palms of her hand until it hurts. “I’m scared that it’s me. That all the people around me, that their lives, that they just get worse because I’m in them. I… It’s me.”

“Clarke, for fuck’s sake. You’re not _that_ important, okay?” Raven throws the covers off of her, getting out of bed like she’s finally had enough of it. She struggles a little with her leg, wincing at the stiffness. “You can’t take credit for every shitty thing that happens to every person you know. Or if you’re really going to be that annoying, _at least_ take credit for the good shit too.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, before giving them both a dumbfounded look. “Guys, please. This isn’t another one of your little interventions. I just came here to—complain about my life.”

“Your dad loved you,” Wells starts, completely ignoring her. “And he always said you made his life better.”

Raven throws her hand up as she thinks of another thing. “You helped Lexa love again, after her first girlfriend turned out to be an in-the-closet republican asshole and she had sworn off loving any human ever again because she was that dramatic.” She raises her eyebrow, obviously not as enamored by the stories Clarke told her as the blonde herself had been.

Wells presses a hand to his chest, seriously. “ _I_ wouldn’t be able to live without you.” That’s just a deadass lie, she knows that, but she’ll take it because it’s Wells and he’s that pure. She would be dead in a ditch somewhere if it wasn’t for him. Hell, she wouldn’t even gone to medical school just to spite her mother.

Raven shrugs, considering everything, “And really, by fucking Finn and then being too pussy to confront me about it, you got me and Wells together and look at what we have. We have a son. I personally wouldn’t take that back for anything in the world. Would you?”

Clarke freezes, and it takes her a second to catch up. Slowly, she turns towards Raven, who looks completely unimpressed. “It’s the 21st century, Clarke. You think I wouldn’t be able to find you online? How do you think I found out?”

“You never…” Clarke almost accuses, because she’s a little mad. They’ve been lying to her this entire ti—okay. Maybe she doesn’t get to be mad.

“No, why should I?” Raven actually sends her a judgemental look, snorting incredulously as she massages her knee. “So we could talk about our feelings? I didn’t even realize you didn’t know I knew until Finn came to visit me and Jet in the hospital and you were all weird and ‘ _I have never seen this man before. In my life. Like ever. In the history of time. On this planet in this universe._ ’.”

She’s been guilty about this for so long, beating herself up for it, and Raven just, she knows? Man. And Wells, him, too? She turns to her other friend, can’t help herself but sound a little betrayed. “You knew too?”

“Uhm, I knew you dated the douche. And the one and only time I convinced Rae to show me a photo album from her childhood there was a little greasy kid with a wild haircut in most of the pictures, but.” He looks uncomfortable. They’re practically married. Of course he knows. “Yeah. I knew.”

“We just figured you were trying to do your whole ‘bearing it all so no one else to’ act that somehow made it easier for you to deal with the pain, and it’s been nice and all for the past couple of years, but it’s time to move the hell on from that martyr complex you carry around. It doesn’t do you any good.”

She takes a deep breath, processing it all. Then, “Back then when I first met him, I wasn’t ready, you know. I just saw an angry judgemental asshole and now when I think back to that moment—I. I just realize how he was just trying to protect his sister and how his hair fell into his eyes and how good he looked in his uniform.”

“So, get your ass out of _my_ bed and go get some.” Raven looks at her expectantly, hands on her hips. “Preferably when he’s not messed up emotionally over his sister, but hey. Life’s short.”

“Clarke, the only way to really get over the fact you always run away, is… for once, to just. Not.” Wells tries to break it gently, patting her thigh.

If only it were that easy.

 .

She knocks on his door that night, figuring he must have gone home at one point to get some food, or at least sleep for a little while. She feels a little creepy, knocking on someone’s door at eleven p.m., but she guesses she’s far past that stage anyway.

“Clarke.” That’s it. That’s his greeting. Nice and distant. Great.

“Hi, Bellamy,” she responds, suddenly at a loss of words. He looks good, considering. His hair’s still damp from what she guesses was a shower, wearing one of those black v-necks she hate-loves, feet bare. “I...”

He looks at her, expectant. “Yes?” Does he have to be an ass when she’s trying to apologize? Of course.

“Are you… going back there?” She asks, even though she knows the answer to that already.

“Yeah,” he retorts matter-of-factly, arms crossed over his chest and she tries not to stare at how good it makes his biceps look. Which, by the way, makes her a terrible person. He’s obviously upset and she’s objectifying him.

“Because she asked you to?” Clarke raises an eyebrow, because. Really? She knows Octavia well enough now to know she wouldn’t want her brother to break his back on a bad waiting room chair while she was sleeping anyway.

He hesitates, shoulders sagging a little. He uncrosses his arms, crosses them again. Finally, he gives in. “No.”

She’s only distracting herself from the reason she’s really here. Postponing the inevitable. “She told you to stay home?”

“Clarke,” he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, answer to her earlier question obvious. “Since I’d like to believe you didn’t just come here to tell me how to live my life—what are you doing here?”

“Basically, I was trying to apologize for being a dick earlier.” Spit it out, Clarke. She has to grit her teeth, tell herself it’s okay to not be guarded all the time, even if she’s trying to be casual about it. “You know, kissing you when you were upset and then bolting even though you were still upset and I had just kissed you.”

Clarke knows it’s not easy, that’s the problem. When you’ve been through to the things they have, and people disappoint you, or leave, forgiveness gets hard. It’s like letting someone back in, giving them the chance to hurt you again. Not just giving it is difficult, but also receiving it. It gets so fundamentally hard to think not everything is your fault that people saying they forgive you feels even worse. But she wants it, his forgiveness. Him.

“I don’t want to be angry at you for leaving,” he starts, but doesn’t really finish. Clarke knows why. He _is_ angry. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Clarke, because I know what you went through. But—”

“So let’s not,” she offers, dumbly, staring up at him.

“What?”

“Let’s not talk about it.” Her tongue dips out to wet her bottom lip. “I don’t want to talk.”

He looks confused, or conflicted, or both.

She steps closer and puts her hand on his chest, tries it out before looking up at him. The door falls shut behind them. Their faces are so close, she’s about to pass out. “Please.” Forgive me, forgive me.

He looks down at her, eyes dark but there’s a hard conflicting edge to them. “I’m not the guy who’s going to tell you this is a bad idea.”

Honestly, she can’t be imaging the tension between them right now. She doesn’t care if he’s angry right now, it’ll pass.

“Why would it be a bad idea? Angry sex is good, right, very passionate,” she jokes, lamely. She smiles, but it doesn’t really reach her eyes. Her heart is pounding so loudly in her ears, she’s surprised she can even make out any words right now.

“Yeah, penting up emotions and ignoring them completely. What could possibly happen?” He says, sarcastically and when she tries to take his hand of his chest, he catches it. Holding it in his own. He’s trying, so she should, too.

“Look, if you want to know why—I don’t know either. I think because I’ve been screwed over so many times by the universe when it comes to the people in my life that I care about, I just. I try to not give it the chance to do it again.” She wets her bottom lip, taking in a slow breath. “So I walk. Or run. Or just lightly jog. Or straight up bolt out of there. Any of the above.”

“I get it, Clarke. I do. I mean I’ve never depended on anyone because it was just me and Octavia for a long time. Even now, Miller is really the only other person that I trust. Maybe Lincoln, on a good day.” He’s looking down at her hand, using both of his to hold hers, thumb running softly over the skin of her wrist.

He finds her gaze, eyebrows still furrowed together. “And I trusted you, with the most important thing in my life. And she still got sick. I do, I do know that isn’t your fault, I know that—but my first instinct is to think that I was wrong about you. And every time you reject me, I just—I still trust you, but it makes it harder to drown out the voice telling me not to.”

He takes in a sharp breath, shaking his head. “I’m not trying to—I’m not trying to guilt you into anything, or saying you owe me anything, because you, you don’t. But—”

“It works both ways,” she fills in, squeezing his hand. He did everything right, gave her time and space when she needed it, waited for her, never pressured. He did it right and it makes her heart ache a little, in the good way. “You can’t trust me if I keep shutting down on you and if I keep walking away…”

“Can I… can we just—I don’t know.” He’s frowning, again. He swallows, hard, obviously thinking about how he’s going to put it. He shrugs, like he’s all of a sudden super casual, as he forces out, “Do you—do you want to do this?”

She puts her free hand on his cheek, opens her mouth, but she doesn’t really know how to convince him completely. She leans up, leans her forehead against his and pauses to give him time to back away, but he’s looking at her so earnestly and soft, she just presses her lips to his. She’s making a choice, and she’s not going to be a coward about it now.

At first, he doesn’t really respond. Then he opens his mouth, breathing in, deepening the kiss, dropping her hand to slip on of his into her hair, the other on her waist. Her own hand joins the other on his neck, as he walks them back until she hits the door.

Her back arches into him as he pushes his body against her, the hand on her waist trailing down to grip her ass. She gasps, small, at the sudden loss of contact as he starts kissing down her neck, it all feels like a promise she’s going to have a very good time tonight.

She pulls him back up, kissing frantically as she pushes them into the direction of the stairs. They stumble up to his room, and she’s kind of annoyed at herself for only getting him out of his belt buckle this far. She used to be super skilled at this sort of stuff—kissing and undressing at the same time—before she went out of practice.

“Bed?” He just breathes against her mouth, before pecking it, pushing her back up against the wall of his bedroom. Like he’s actually trying to let her objectively decide if she really wants to go through it. It’s cute.

She smiles, a laugh bubbling up her throat as she kisses him again before his mouth starts trailing down her neck again, biting and sucking and making her toes curl in her shoes.

“Y-yeah,” she manages to get out as she throws her head back against the wall. “You, you don’t…” A moan interrupts her sentence, and it serves her right for being this way when a guy is literally trying to get his hand into her pants. “You don’t need to, need to be somewhere else?”

Her stomach clenches as he pauses against her ear, lowly muttering, “Shut up.”

His hand finally manages to get past her jeans and underwear, and she feels a little like dying, it’s that good. She starts walking him back towards his bed, because she’s waited long enough, tugging at his shirt until he finally agrees to pull it off. He’s about to get back to work when she reaches out to flick the button of his jeans open, pulling down the zipper.

Guessing from the bulge pressing against her thigh, he’s _always_ packing. Cop jokes during sex, what’s become of her. He lets out a gratifying groan as she finally wraps her hand around him. He lets her tug at it a few times before he grabs her wrist, lets out a strained ‘Clarke’, and then pulls at it until she’s standing in front of him and he’s sitting down on the bed. It’s probably a little sad that she would’ve been just as happy standing there, jerking him off. She’s that far gone.

She takes this as her cue to get as undressed as he is, pulling her shirt over her head and stepping out of her jeans and underwear before unclipping her bra swiftly and throwing it somewhere behind her. She just thanks the lord it isn’t washing day. Then, she reaches up and undoes the messy bun her hair’s in, giving him a challenging look. She doesn’t really know why, just likes the way his dark eyes darken even more.

He pulls her back down for a searing kiss, and her hands land on his chest, impressive muscles moving beneath her fingers. She presses the rest of herself against him, too, and stupidly, she thinks, _it fits, them, like this_. Skin on skin.

Finally he lays down, taking her with him until her hair frames their faces and she has to reach up to hold it to the side as he pauses kissing her.

“You should know,” he breathes, heavy, swallowing, and his eyes turn surprisingly earnest. “I really like you.”

A rush of affection surges up in her, because he’s so dramatic, and she can’t help but smile as she presses her mouth against his again. “Really? I was basically only in this for the sex so could we get on—”

He rolls them over as she laughs, entire body shaking with pure giddiness. He raises his eyebrows, resting his weight on one elbow as the other hand trails down her stomach, teasingly, making her squirm, before abruptly pulling it away. “I take it back.”

“Fine, fine,” she says breathlessly, cheeks flushed with contentedness, grabbing a hold of his hand and placing it back on her waist, pushing it further down. “I guess... I’m kind of into you. Too. If you insist.”

He hums, in a smug I-told-you-so kind of way, smirking, but when he kisses her it’s more gentle, soft, making her feel vulnerable in a completely different way than being naked in front of the guy she likes. A good, honest kind of vulnerable, one she could get used to.

.

She wakes up to a pretty amazing sight, Bellamy sleeping peacefully, not a worry line on his face for maybe the first time since she’s known him. She traces a finger over his cheekbone, smiling stupidly to herself as he peeks at her through one eye, calling her a creep.

“I never pretended like I wasn’t,” she retorts, pressing a kiss to his mouth before stretching her arms. He sits up, rubbing his eyes as he reaches over to look at his phone. She ignores how good he looks like that, shirtless, in bed, next to her.

“Everything all right,” she checks, as she feels around for her own phone on the nightstand. He nods, absentmindedly, typing something on his phone, “Yeah, just telling Octavia at what time I’ll be…” He finally looks up from his phone, “What the hell are you doing?”

Her legs are still half on the bed, the rest of her body hanging out of as she uses her upper body to maneuver around the bed as she feels around for her own phone on the floor. “I can’t find my cell. Can you call me?”

He does as she says, and there’s a faint sound of noise coming from _somewhere_. Bellamy gets up from the bed, shrugging into his boxers before trying to locate the origin of the sound.

Clarke gets up, too, pulling his sheet tightly around her as she walks over to a pile of clothes at the end of the bed just when the buzzing ends. “Wait, call again.”

The sounds starts back up again, and finally, Bellamy has more luck, pulling it out of his shoe, under the bed. He looks confused at how it got there before they both realize what song is her ringtone whenever he calls.

**♫** _—needs some good lovin’_

_Yo if I need it in the morning or the middle of the night_

_I ain’t too proud to beg, NO_

_If the lovin’ is strong then he got it goin’ on and_

_I ain’t too proud to beg, NO_ **♫**

He raises his eyebrows, pretty smug looking and she can feel her neck flushing as she tries to snatch it from him, but he holds it high enough so she can’t reach.

**♫** _two inches or a yard rock hard or if it’s saggin’_

_I ain’t too proud to beg, N—_ **♫**

She punches him in the ribs, so he lowers his arm enough for her to grab it from him, quickly punching every button she can think of just to make it stop. “Raven must have gotten her claws on it.”

He rubs his side, and he’s laughing, loud and annoying, like he’s somehow got the upperhand, or something. He manages to sound vaguely judgemental, “In the middle of the night, sounds familiar.”

“Please,” she spits, crossing her arms over her chest. “I wasn’t the one moaning your name like—”

“Please? There’s it again.”

He’s still smirking and she feels the need to put rat poison in Raven’s morning coffee. She’ll do it, you know. He mockingly sends her a questioning glance, tilting his head slightly. “When it’s two inches and sagging, Clarke?”

“I’m going to leave,” she announces, bending down to pick up her shirt because she’s like, making a point. He’s still laughing when he catches her as she gets up, putting his arms around her waist from behind, connecting their hands as he walks them backwards to the bed.

“I’m glad you think this is funny.”

“C’mon,” he shrugs one shoulder, pats her ass playfully. “It’s a little funny.”

She rolls her eyes as he pulls them back into the bed before just pressing his lips against hers. He leans back on the headboard and she joins him, resting her head on his shoulder. “How do you know that’s not my standard ringtone?”

“Because I’ve heard that annoying marimba tone go off about twenty-thousand times whenever we’re together. Not even the xylophone one, Clarke. Marimba, the one that sounds like torture and death.”

“Aww, so you’re not even going to pretend like you’d be jealous?”

“Nah.” He picks up her hand to press a kiss against it. “I’m pretty sure that after last night they’re probably not going to be much of a problem anymore anyway.” 

She laughs, slapping his firm chest. “Wow. That’s a new level of arrogancy I didn’t even know existed.”

“And I thought you studied this shit. It’s called a narcissistic personality disorder, babe. It’s a real disease, look it up.”

Their laughs are still fading when he says, apologetic, “I meant what I said yesterday. I didn’t want to be angry, because I knew why—”

“But you were,” she states, shifting her head so she can see his face. He looks little guilty, like he actually did something wrong. “It’s okay, Bellamy,” she laughs softly. “I won’t break or spiral down into a chronic depression, or anything.”

“Only because I realized that this time I could only get through it with you. The hospitals and the tests and the uncertainty—I thought we were in it, together.” He breaks eye contact, squeezes her hand. “And you bailed on me.”

“I’m sorry for leaving,” she says, earnest and soft, and she hopes he knows she means she won’t, again. She only left for a few hours, but it was at a crucial moment, and she knows that.  

“I’m sorry, too,” he answers, connecting their fingers, and she feels that twinge again, in her chest, _hope_. Hope that life does get brighter after darkness.

“But you would’ve gotten through it however, you know that right?”

“Yeah, but it’s easier. With you.” He nudges her with his elbow, grin widening into a smirk. “Being a pain in my ass.”

“ _I’m_ the pain in the ass? You’re the only who was practically stalking me at one point.”

“Please. You were the one who gave me your number because I showed up in my uniform, _once_.”

“I’m not even going to bother responding to that.”

“Why, because I’m right and you fantasized about a doctor/cop pornlike scenario like all the time?”

She laughs into his shoulder, and she’s glad they fixed this, fixed them. Because it _is_ easier, the pain and the dark and the sorrow, when he’s right there beside her.

.

 He introduces her to Lincoln as his _girlfriend_ , and her heart pounds loudly in her ears but she thinks it’s the good kind of pounding.

“Nice,” Octavia mentions while she’s still shaking Lincoln’s hand. Her hair’s all elaborately braided and awesome, again, now that he’s here. Which makes her suspect he’s actually the one who does all the difficult braiding work for her. “You two do the nasty while I wither away in this bed by myself.”

She ignores Octavia and the way her neck flushes as she compliments Lincoln’s proposal, sending his fiancée a pointed look in the process.

“Thanks,” he laughs at their shenanigans, shaking his head as he rubs the back of his neck, shy. He looks the part of a boxer, all muscles and tattoos, but Clarke has trouble really believing it, looking at him like this. “I usually mostly do children’s books but she’s the exception.”

They talk about art a little, what they like and don’t, how coal is the worst to wash off completely, and the weirdest places they’ve found paint (on her foot, while she was wearing shoes the entire time???), while Bellamy talks to his sister for a moment. It seems to go well for the most part until she abruptly pushes his hand off her shoulder, eyes ablaze as he mutters something, low and spiteful as far as she can make out.

He storms out of her room and Clarke looks from Lincoln to Octavia (who refuses to look at her, arms crossed as she stares out of the window, eyebrows furrowed dangerously) and back. He opens his mouth but then shrugs, shaking his head.

“Octavia, you all right?” She tries, softly, rubbing her leg over the sheets comfortingly.

“He’s just a contemptuous jackass on a serious ego-trip, that’s all.”

Carefully, she starts, “Maybe try and give him a break, he’s just worried about—”

Her head finally snaps around to face her, jaw clenched. “Just because you’re my doctor who happens to be fucking my brother doesn’t mean you all of a sudden get to tell me what to do.”

“O,” Lincoln warns, stern but she just scoffs, indignant, turning back to the window.

She takes a step back, opening her mouth to say something but closes it instead. What’s there really to say to a Blake when they’re angry? She excuses herself to go find Bellamy, responds to Lincoln’s apologetic look by sending him a small smile. She’s seen worse.

She finds him outside on the steps leading down to the parking lot. She sinks down beside him, sighing quietly. “What happened?”

“I just don’t get it. Why she’d risk it, risk _everything_ we spent so much time and energy and money and god knows what else on trying to get, just because—” He shakes his head, kicks idly at a rock before running his hands through his hair. “What? She doesn’t want to try another procedure?”

She rubs his shoulder for a moment, tries to give him some physical comfort even though he’s the tactile one of them both. She knows technically Octavia told her not to stick her nose into their business (in other words), but. She can’t help it. It’s what she does. She’s a doctor, she practically makes a living out of other people’s personal business.

Softly clearing her throat, she suggests, “You keep seeing her like this fragile little sister that you have to protect, but that isn’t the case. She stopped being a child the minute she was able to comprehend she had a life-threatening disease.”

He looks offended, opens his mouth to correct her when something seems to click in his head. She’s not the enemy. She squeezes his shoulder, once, tight. “And you’ve done your part. You raised her right, and taught her what’s important, kept her _alive_. All so one day she could make her own decisions, live her own life.” She moves her hand to his neck, uses her thumb to caress the tan skin just below his jaw. “Whatever happens, it’ll be what she wanted.”

_And I’ll be here_.

He takes in a sharp breath before taking her hand of him and in his, leans back on his other. He presses her hand to his face for a moment before he finally lets it out, shoulders sagging a little as he fixates his gaze on the sky. “You know part of the reason why I’m such a hardass on her is because a while back I was going through some, I don’t know, second puberty phase or something, convinced I missed out on a lot growing up.” He smiles, self-deprecating, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Octavia turned twenty-one and I just thought—”

“Fuck it?” Clarke offers and he laughs. It feels good, to make him laugh when he’s upset.

“Yeah. I did actually. I just—I figured she could take care of herself, because that’s what she spent half the time we were together telling me anyway. And I, you know. I wasn’t there for her. Figured it wasn’t my responsibility any more.” His shoulders straighten and he looks visibly uncomfortable at the memory.

“Octavia, she is…” He takes a deep breath, chuckling a little, “reckless and impulsive and she forgets her doctor’s appointments and to retake her meds after she’s thrown up from drinking too much and bungee jumps off of cliffs and gets tattoos in shops that have never heard of the word sterilization.” His expression changes into something darker, and she guesses Octavia is not just his sister. She kind of feels like a child to him, because he doesn’t know any better than raising her, taking care of her, protecting her. It makes it harder not to still see her as one. “I’m not—I’m not saying I’m her babysitter or anything, but sometimes she needs a reminder, and she was just barely an adult back then. 

He’s biting on the inside of his cheek for a moment, before he adds an afterthought. “And I wasn’t there to remind her of _anything_ , really, so she got sick.”

“Was it bad?” Clarke tries, carefully, because she doesn’t want to be the start of the avalanche of guilt he’s always hiding at some point.

“Well, this was maybe three years after her transplant and she was pretty convinced she was invincible.” He turns his head to look at her, frowning at the what ifs probably. “Almost ended up losing her arm because of an infection when her immune system had taken a hit from a cold, and then being too stubborn to get it checked out.” 

Octavia is… She’s loud and present and intuitive and impulsive because she’s trying to prove she’s there, she’s real, she meant something to someone. Because that’s all she ever was able to do, make of her life.

“I know it’s hard to let go of the idea that survival is all that really matters, when that’s all you two have known for such a long time, but life. I think,” she sighs, collecting herself to get it right, the words. “Like I said before, I think that when I went through my _rough patch_ ,” she air quotes, and he nudges her, lame, making her bite back a smile. “I really realized that life is about more than just surviving. So much more.”

“It’s just hard not to think about that all the time.” He rubs a hand over his face, tired. “About what could’ve happened, about how I felt then and how I don’t ever want to feel again.”

He would do anything to protect her, doesn’t care what he has to do, even if she might not want him to. And she needed that, at one point in her life. But doesn’t anymore. He’s just afraid of the guilt if she makes the wrong decision. She knows what it can do to you, guilt, brewing anxiety on the inside until it becomes too much and eats you whole.

“If you can’t forgive yourself—I will.” She pats his leg, doesn’t let him break eye-contact. “Forgiveness. I’ll give that to you. You’re forgiven.”

He knocks his arm against hers, smirking, and just like that she knows they’re done being serious. “How do I know you’re not just saying this to get back into my pants?”

“I don’t need you all anti-angsty for that. My last girlfriend listened to Paramore and wore so much eyeliner that at one point people thought she was a fifteen year old going through an emo-phase.” She shrugs, unbothered. “It’s a thing. My thing.”

He seems to consider it, finally saying, “I could rock eyeliner.”

“Mhmm, sure you could,” she grins, kissing him. “You’re going to apologize to your sister?”

“You’re going to admit I would out-stun anyone else ever in the history of time who’s ever worn eyeliner in this universe anywhere?”

She’ll take that as a yes.

 .

“Damn, you’re old,” Raven states, downing the last of her beer before helping her take her cake out of the fridge. Wells made the cake because no one trusted her with something that required more than four ingredients. Clarke made special cocktails, because it’s her birthday and she likes them and they only require two ingredients, but Raven doesn’t do cocktails. “Like really old.”

“Wells is literally also turning thirty in two weeks.”

She half-shrugs, causing the purple frosted sugary creature to wobble. “I have a thing for the elderly.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, as they start carrying it towards the dining room. “If anyone has a thing for the elderly, it’s obviously me.”

She makes a noise in the back of her throat, like she’s actually considering it. “Isn’t Lincoln like way, way older than Octavia though?”

“You two gossiping about me?” Octavia appears from her left, discarding two empty beer bottles in the sink before hip-checking her and almost knocking over the cake in the process.

Clarke opens her mouth while she tries to maneuver the plate from one hand to another, but Raven beats her to it. “We were fighting over who had a bigger kink for old men.”

“Oh yeah, I definitely take the crown,” she says, taking over Raven’s side and helping Clarke put it on the dining room table. They can hear chanting coming from the living room, where the rest is playing Mario Kart. Jet is beating everyone and he’s like two and half. They’re not even _letting_ him win, it’s sad. “When Bellamy was born, Lincoln was in kindergarten.”

Raven leans back against the kitchen island, shaking her foot a little as she crosses her arms judgmentally. “But is it really about the size of the age gap though? Or is it more about how dedicated you are to the age part of a potential partner?”

“I see where you’re going. Were we attracted to the men, or women,” she sends a pointed look Clarke’s way, scooping some frosting from the back of the cake and putting it in her mouth, “because we genuinely liked them, or was it the fact they could technically be our mothers’ young lovers that she would date during her Madonna style midlife crisis?”

“Guys, this is starting to become a fundamentally gross discussion.” Clarke puts both of her hands on the table, leaning on them. “Also, I’m a visual thinker. Abby and— _Jesus_ , I’m gonna be sick.”

“Hey Clarke,” Octavia says, and the blonde takes her hand off her face to look at her in expectancy. “A naked Jaha, and you’re taking of his last remaining sock. Kind of like a Hot for Teacher thing, but then leg—” Clarke reaches out to slap her with a kitchen towel, but she manages to escape her just in time, cackling her way over to the living room.

Raven is snorting, arms crossed over her chest as Clarke shoves her towards the living room, too. “Shut up.”

Octavia nestled herself on the couch in between her brother and Jet, giving the latter tips here and there on how to beat Bellamy. Wells is leaning against the back of the couch, talking to Lincoln about drawing a children’s book about one of his common procedures so he can give it to his patients beforehand to make it less scary and unknown (he’s been asking her about it for _weeks_ ). Raven nudges her with her elbow, smirking at the cheesy look that’s probably on her face. They all fit.

Clarke rolls her eyes, flips her the bird and tells everyone it’s time for cake. Jet wants to help her blow the candles, perched on her hip. The 78 second phone call with her mom isn’t too horrible. Her friends are all here, and she loves them all for different individual reasons and as a whole and she’s so grateful and happy that—thirty isn’t so bad.

Later, when they’re all drunk, Jet is asleep on Raven and Wells' bed and the latter is just generally being his good-time-having sober self, Bellamy pulls her into his lap, arms wrapping around her, chin resting on her shoulder. “You wanna get out of here?”

At some point in her life, that question alone would’ve given her crippling anxiety, but she’s good now. With him. Because that’s what really matters, right, the fact that she can finally for the first time honestly and wholeheartedly admit that she needs him as much as he needs her and they’re in it together. She smiles, pressing her lips against his temple in an awkward angle, and then says,

“Only if you come with me.” 

. 

_I've never felt this healthy before_

_I've never wanted something rational_

_I am aware now_

_I am aware now_

.

**Author's Note:**

> dont kudo or comment on this fic!!!1!!! DON'T, !!  
> (its reverse psychology)  
> seriously tho, gimme some love i'd die (in a good way)  
> <3<3<3


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